


young hearts

by defcontwo



Series: it's about damn time (to live it up) [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fic Verse Outtakes, Gen, M/M, references to past internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what’s in Montreal?”</p><p>“Poutine, mostly,” Parser says, like an asshole. He drains his beer and asks the waitress for another one with a quick flash of that charming media smile of his.</p><p>Banks just grunts.</p><p>“Also, my best friend and his father’s private rink in the suburbs,” Parser relents. </p><p>Or: outtakes from the second 34 days and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. come on fill your cup up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparklyslug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/gifts).



> So, I've had little drabbles and bits and pieces set within and around "you're one of us, then roll with us," and "the heart not to lose it," basically just rattling around my brain for five million years and collecting some dust and I thought it was about time that I started sharing a few.
> 
> In case you didn't know! buchanan already wrote a beautiful fic set within this 'verse that you should all go check out: [never on the basis of anything more than this.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3846925)

On Kent’s day with the Cup, Jack opens his front door to find a woman in her late thirties with closely cropped red hair shot through with grey, standing on the other side, holding the Stanley Cup like it’s nothing more than a regular old brown box package that she’s here to deliver. 

“So, you’re Jack,” the woman says, propping the Cup against one hip and holding out her hand. “I’m Mac. Aces’ physician. Is Kent up yet or is it still too early for his delicate fucking sensibilities?” 

There’s a huff from somewhere behind Jack that can only be Kent, and then, “Delicate sensibilities? Are you gay bashing me, Mac?” 

Mac shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, so whatever the hell is going on right now, Jack’s reasonably sure that it’s par for the course. He ducks out of the way, lets Kent move past him to wrap Mac in a bear hug, trophy and all. The hug goes on for a while; Jack doesn’t miss the way Mac clutches a little tighter than would be normal between two work colleagues, doesn’t miss how she ruffles Kent’s hair when he pulls away, a naked fondness in her gaze. 

“Still in your PJs at 11 in the morning, huh?” Mac says, nodding at Kent’s low-slung sweatpants. 

“Give me a fucking break, Mac,” Kent says, taking the Cup out of her hands and hoisting it up, and heading into the house with it, like this is something he’s done before which, hey -- he has, hasn’t he. Jack forces himself not to stare. “I’m having a traumatic summer.” 

“Yeah, you look hard-done-by, kiddo,” Mac says, following Jack and Kent into the foyer. Kent places the Cup on top of the sideboard, before jerking his chin, leading them both into the kitchen. For coffee, probably. “Summer in Montreal at Bad Bob’s mansion. Rough life, Parson,” but she pins Kent with an eagle-eyed gaze that’s equal parts assessing and concerned, so she must not mean it all that much. 

“I get no sympathy from this one,” Kent complains, facing Jack with a put-upon hang-dog expression. “I break a rib and she just tells me to stop whining about it.” 

“You’ve never broken a rib, Kent,” Mac says. “You’ve only ever bruised them.” 

“Says you,” Kent grumbles, but he’s already halfway to caffeine-fueled nirvana by the look on his face after his first sip of coffee, so it doesn’t come out nearly as grumpy as he probably meant it to. 

“So,” Mac says, accepting the mug of coffee that Jack pours for her with a nod, and going to stand next to Kent by the counter, hip-checking him lightly. “You’ve got a whole 24 hours with it. Got any big plans, Captain?” 

“Body shots off a male stripper,” Kent deadpans. 

Jack nearly spits his own coffee out, laughing. “Jesus, Kenny.” 

Mac’s face lights right up, just as Kent’s falls. 

“No, no, tell me more about your plans for the Cup. And the male strippers,” Mac says, turning her head to look straight at Kent. “ _Kenny_.” 

~

 

Kent’s mom gets into Montreal about an hour later, and by that point, it’s officially reached an hour where it’s….not entirely socially unacceptable to pack it all up and head to the nearest bar, so Bob directs them all his favorite local watering hole, where he’s closed out the place so it’s just the whole bunch of them, some of Bob’s buddies, and the bartenders from now until….until whenever the last person gets sick of drinking, probably. 

Kent’s at the center of it all for the bulk of it -- cracking jokes with the bartenders, doing shots with his mom and sister, pulling some of the best stories out of Bob because they’ve always been a little too similar, maybe, they both have that easy wide-smiled charm in a crowd, and yeah, so Jack’s definitely not going to look too closely into that particular wormhole of personal issues. 

Jack nurses a can of beer over the course of several hours, finally abandoning it to the bar when it gets too warm to even pretend that he’s going to finish it, and asks the bartender for a coke. 

“You our designated driver?” Mac says, sidling up to the bar, and ordering herself another whisky, neat. 

There’s obviously….there’s obviously history, there, between Kent and Mac. A kindred spirit, a common respect, this whole other fully formed friendship that Jack doesn’t know anything about it, and he felt like he was intruding, a little, when Mac caught him staring at the two of them earlier, heads bent close together, deep in conversation. Jack gets, for the first time, how surreal it must have been for Kent to walk into the Haus and find Jack surrounded by this whole other life that Kent wasn’t apart of. 

Mac makes him a little nervous, Jack’ll admit. She’s got a sharp eye and she knows Kent, that much is obvious, which -- which makes Jack wonder how much Mac knows, makes his brain go chasing itself around in circles trying to work it out, makes him wonder what she knows about him. And it’s not -- Jack’s not ashamed, not anymore, for all that he can’t pretend that there wasn’t a time in his life when he was ashamed. Can’t pretend that there wasn’t a time when it was hard, for him, that there wasn’t a time when he would close off, jerk back, shoot out a hasty, defensive, “but I’m not gay,” that would put that an ugly, small hurt in Kent’s eyes that Jack still hates to see. 

Jack shrugs, finally. “Not much of a drinker anymore.” 

“Wise,” Mac says. “I probably shouldn’t be either but there’s a statistic out there somewhere, about how much doctors drink. Might as well go with the flow.” 

“You don’t really strike me as a go with the flow kind of person,” Jack says, and then regrets it, because that was definitely just a touch too personal. 

Mac just laughs, though, and raises her drink in salute. “You’re not wrong there, Zimmermann.” 

Jack gives her a small, tight smile, before they lapse into silence. He resists the urge to fiddle with the tab on his coke can, with the shredded napkin on the bar, with his phone, anything. His hands feel too idle, his brain not quiet enough right this second for his own good. 

Mac leans in, drops her voice to a whisper. “You don’t have to look so nervous, Zimmermann. It’s none of my business, whatever’s between you and Kent.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack says, swallowing hard, anxiety clicking in the back of his throat. 

Mac sets her drink on the bar with a thunk, and Jack knows he’s not imagining the slump in her shoulders, the barely perceptible headshake. “Jesus, this fucking sport. Look, Zimmermann -- he didn’t say anything to me. He wouldn’t give you up, not for the world. But it’s not too hard to put two and two together when you’ve got the right pieces of the puzzle, you get me? That doesn’t mean you have to...you don’t have to stand around, looking terrified that I’m going to say anything to anyone. I won’t.” 

“I -- thank you,” Jack says. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s torn between two impulses: to run away as fast as possible or to stick around to try and talk to Mac because she knows a Kent that’s a whole lot different than Jack does, and he can’t help it, he’s a little too curious.

Mac just nods, and then shifts away, raises her voice from a whisper. “So, the Falconers, huh? That George is a real piece of work, you know, I adore the hell out of her.” 

“Yeah?” Jack says, probably trying and failing to look so transparently relieved. “Me too.” 

~

Kent’s sitting outside the bar, a half-finished beer propped next to him on the curb, when Jack steps out for some air an hour later. He’s got his phone in his hand but mostly, he seems to just be staring straight ahead, into nothingness, into the rapidly fading light that’s retreating its way across the bar parking lot. 

Jack drops down next to him. “You’re missing your party.” 

“I -- ” Kent starts, and then shakes his head. “Take this fucker away from me, I keep Googling myself.” 

Jack leans over, and carefully plucks the iPhone out of Kent’s hands, dropping it into the front pocket of his plaid shirt. “Would you take it back? If you could?” 

Kent makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, and follows it up with a sip of beer. He’s silent for so long that Jack almost thinks he’s not going to answer. “Nah. I mean, sure -- do I know what’s going to happen next? How the dice are going to fall when I return to Vegas in a few months? No, but…..” Here, Kent pauses, and rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm. “I don’t ever have to go back to how things were, so. Right now, that’s good enough for me.” 

Jack can’t help it; something in his chest aches, a little, but for what, he doesn’t know. For the past, maybe, for a time when he could’ve run his thumb across the black circles under Kent’s eyes, and drawn out a small, dimpled smile in place of that sullen, bitter twist of the lips. 

But. They’re not as scared as they used to be. Maybe Kent’s right. Maybe that’s good enough, right there. 

“Hey,” Jack says, nudging Kent in the side with his elbow. “Wanna put together a Parson-Zimmermann beer pong reunion?” 

“You don’t drink anymore,” Kent points out. 

“So you’ll get all the booze, and I’ll be sober enough to make all the shots,” Jack says, nudging Kent again until he startles a laugh out of him. 

“I do get better at beer pong the more I drink,” Kent says, slowly, clearly warming up to the idea. 

Jack heaves himself up from the curb, and holds out a hand to help Kent up. Kent looks up at him for a beat or two, dumb cowlick falling into his eyes, and then reaches out a hand, lacing his fingers through Jack’s. “Alright, Zimms. You’ve got yourself a partner.”


	2. easy now, with my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, okay,” Kent says, placing the chopping knife down on the cutting board with a soft thump, splaying his hands against the granite countertops and leaning forward. “We can talk about it. But I’m pretty sure that it’s not on me to start this conversation, man.” 
> 
> Jack flinches, but doesn’t deny it. 
> 
> And besides, Kent’s already used up his fair share of bravery for the summer.

“You bought him an _oven_?” 

“I….maybe?” Jack says, reaching up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Is that an actual maybe, Zimms, or is that just a yes,” Kent says. They’re both standing at the kitchen island while Kent chops vegetables for what’s probably going to turn out to be a singularly lazy effort in pasta primavera. Maman is upstairs getting ready for a charity dinner and Papa is out of town for a few days because there’s not a month that goes by when someone doesn’t want his opinion on whatever’s next in the hockey world. Combined with Kent’s sister off in Toronto for a week visiting a friend, they’ve found themselves with another solid block of alone time. 

Jack’s pretty sure that they won’t burn down the kitchen; Kent’s been doing this whole fending-for-himself thing for years now, after all. Still, that’s not going to stop him from watching the gas stove a little closer than he probably needs to. 

“That’s a yes.” 

Kent sends Jack a flat, incredulous stare. “You tried to fucking U-Haul this boy before you ever took him on a date?”

“I took him on dates!” Jack says, suddenly defensive. “I took him on plenty of dates.” 

“Did he _know_ they were dates?” 

Jack looks down and coughs. “Shut up, Parse.” 

“Ha!” Kent shouts, victorious, gesturing widely with the chopping knife. Jack takes a step back, just in case. “You know, one day, you’ll learn how to use your words like a big boy, Zimms.” 

Jack huffs, with no small amount of self-deprecation. “I’m working on it.” 

Kent ducks his head, the ghost of a smile curling around the edges of his lips. “Yeah, well -- me too, I guess.” 

The funny thing about Kent is, he’s always felt so larger than life to Jack. Before, back when they were kids, Jack couldn’t step into a room that had Kent in it without feeling hyper aware of the space that Kent took up, all five foot and barely ten inches of him. Or maybe more accurately, he couldn’t walk into a room with Kent in it without feeling every inch of the distance that stood between them as he tried to calculate how quickly he could narrow it down to nothing. That’s what makes it so striking, these rare moments when he can see Kent drawing into himself, making himself small and soft in a way that Jack knows he never lets himself be. 

It’s the sort of thing that would’ve kept Jack up at night, once, wondering which version of Kent was the truth. He knows better, now. 

“Stop looking at me like that and get out the pasta,” Kent says, pointing at Jack with the chopping knife again, but the smile is wide and reaches his eyes, now, and it’s nice, that Jack’s getting used to that sight again. It’s hard to believe that they could hardly stand to be in the same room together a year ago, riding a razor thin edge of fight or fuck with no room for grace in between. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Jack chirps, ducking the slice of bell pepper that Kent sends sailing in his direction. 

“You know, the vegetables are supposed to go into the pot or into the compost bin, gentlemen, not on the floor,” Maman calls out from the top of the steps, making her way down into the kitchen, fixing her earrings as she goes. Jack straightens his shoulders out of reflex; she looks lovely but then again, she always does. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Kent says, throwing Maman a snappy salute because he’s a little too good at charming mothers and he knows it. 

Maman just shakes her head, like she sees right through him. Probably, she does. 

“The dinner starts at eight,” Maman says. “It’s supposed to go until ten but if I know these ladies, and I think I do, the wine will get finished and no one will even think about going home until after midnight.” 

“You’ll get home okay?” Jack asks. 

“I’ve called a car, he’s already waiting for me at the end of the driveway. But thank you for your concern, sweetheart,” Maman says, leaning over and pulling Jack into a half-hug. She does that a lot, these days. Sometimes Jack wonders if his graduation from Samwell wasn’t more difficult for his parents than it was anyone else. Now they really do have to let him go. 

Maman straightens, running a hand over her carefully poised up-do. “Right. I’m going out. I’ll be gone for at least **four hours** , maybe more,” she says, and there’s a funny sort of emphasis in her tone, like she’s embarrassed but determined about it anyways, and it takes Jack a second or two to clue in on it but when he does, he turns bright, _bright_ red. “You’re both adults. You’ve got the whole house to yourselves. I’m sure you’ll manage.” 

“ _Maman_ ,” Jack groans, clapping a hand over his burning face. 

Kent just makes a noise that’s somewhere between a snort and a cat being strangled. 

“Good night, I love you both,” Alicia calls out, and then she’s letting herself out the front door and she’s gone. 

There’s a beat and then another beat and then Kent collapses into himself, burying his head into his arms on the cold granite of the countertop, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Jack blinks to himself a couple of times. “What...what just happened?” 

“Your mom just gave us carte blanche to fuck on the furniture, is what just happened,” Kent says, and then breaks off into giggles. 

“I….what?” 

Kent quiets down finally after at least a solid minute but there’s a gleam in his eyes that says he’s not going to let this one go any time soon. “C’mon, man. Who can blame her? I’m _stellar_ son-in-law material.” 

“Do _you_ \-- ” Jack starts, and then stops. They haven’t….they haven’t talked about this, about their breakup that was less of a breakup, and more of what happens when one person dials the same number over and over, and the other person stares at it, but never picks up the phone. “We should -- can we….” Jack trails off, gaze fixed at a point somewhere behind Kent’s left ear, frustrated, because somehow, after everything, he still can’t bring himself to look at this dead on. 

“Yeah, okay,” Kent says, placing the chopping knife down on the cutting board with a soft thump, splaying his hands against the granite countertops and leaning forward. “We can talk about it. But I’m pretty sure that it’s not on me to start this conversation, man.” 

Jack flinches, but doesn’t deny it. 

And besides, Kent’s already used up his fair share of bravery for the summer. 

“This is the part where one of us starts apologizing, right?” Jack says, pressing palm to countertop, mirroring Kent’s image. The surface is cool beneath his skin, a contrast to the hot summer sun they spent all day in. 

“But I….the thing is, it wouldn’t be, uh. An apology usually means you’d take it back, if you could. You know, the thing you did that needed apologizing for. And uh, I’m not….I’m not sure that I would.”

“What, take it back?” Kent says. He doesn’t...he doesn’t look angry, exactly, not like all of the other times they’ve tried to have this conversation in the past five years. Jack can’t read his expression at all; it’s completely blank, save for the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable. 

Kent used to be so easy to read, once. A foreign language that Jack picked up with ease. Now, talking to him can be like picking up a Rosetta Stone tape at random and pressing play, hoping for the best. 

“I didn’t -- I hurt you. I get that, now,” Jack says, “And that was never -- I didn’t want that. God, Kenny. I thought about you all of the time.” 

Kent inhales sharply, and it’s the only sound in the still, empty house. “News to me.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, pressing his fingertips deeper into the granite, as if he pushed hard enough, he could make an indent. “I’m….I’m not proud of that.” 

“But you wouldn’t take it back,” Kent parrots back, and for a second, it looks like he’s getting ready to dig in, to make this a real fight, like so many times before, but then Kent just laughs, a sharp, bitter noise, reaching up to drag a hand through the front of his hair. “Well, shit. I guess I’ve done a lot of things to you that I’m not proud of. Can’t say I’d take those back, either.” 

Jack cracks a lopsided grin. “Hey, look at us.” 

“A pair of real assholes,” Kent says, agreeably. “God. You fucker. What am I gonna do with you?” 

“Keep making me dinner, hopefully,” Jack says, nodding at the abandoned cutting board. 

Kent huffs, but picks up the knife again, anyways, and resumes chopping. They stand in silence for a minute or two, and then, “I'm still in love with you, you know.” 

Jack swallows hard. “Uh….”

“Relax, Zimms,” Kent says, gesturing loosely with the chopping knife. “I’m not, whatever. I’m not saying let’s go fuck on the furniture. The cons of you and me far outweigh the pros, okay, and it took me a long fucking time to see that. I’m not about to start backpedaling now.” 

“Okay,” Jack says. In his back pocket, his phone buzzes with a text message. Bittle, probably. Just the thought of it makes Jack that much lighter, that much braver. It never stops surprising him, how much Bittle makes Jack want to be a better version of himself. 

“I love you, too,” Jack says, at last. “That’s….that’s the truth. I owe you that, I think.”

Kent blows out a breath, but doesn’t say anything. Jack could push it, but, well, maybe it’s about time they stop doing that. Pushing each other. 

It never seems to get them anywhere good.

They stand there in silence for a couple more seconds and then Kent looks up with a crooked grin that almost meets his eyes and says, “so, do you think your mom would bring back condoms and lube if you asked for it?”


End file.
